The Paris Diversion

by Chris Pavone

  Ibrahim hears one of the men snort at the absurdity of that statement. Evidence. Ibrahim cannot turn around, but he does not need his eyes to see it clearly, the man pointing at the center of the cour, at the terrorist in a bomb vest. Evidence? There is your fucking evidence.

  “You have to be firm with these people.”

  “These people?”

  “You cannot just let them get away with this, cannot let them hold a whole city—a whole nation—hostage. Every minute that we wait serves only to embolden them, to legitimize this tactic. Every minute. I strongly urge we take action right now.”

  “Yves?”

  “No. An unprovoked assassination could trigger a disproportionate response.”

  “Unprovoked? Assassination? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I am just trying to put myself in their position. If what they are trying to do is open a negotiation, and we preemptively end the negotiation before even any communication—”

  “But there has been no communication, has there? And it has been three hours. So we have to consider the possibility that this is not a negotiation.”

  “It must be. Do we know anything more about the other devices?”

  “The sites have been cleared, wide perimeters established around maximum blast radii. The explosive-ordnance disposal devices—”

  “Eh? What does that mean?”

  “Robots. The robots are in position to approach and investigate, which should take between thirty and sixty minutes. Each location presents different challenges.”

  “But that has not commenced? Why not?”

  “Awaiting the final order.”

  “Really? Whose order?”

  “Um…at this point, Édouard…?”

  “I believe we are waiting for the president of the republic.”

  “The president? That does not make sense.”

  “No, it does not, but who is going to tell him that? You?”

  “I still say we shoot this bastard right now. Even if this is supposed to be the opening move of a negotiation, eliminating him establishes our position. Displays our strength. Our willingness to make a hard choice, even at high risk.”

  Ibrahim can feel the posturing behind him, like a cloud of indignation: we in la police, our hands are always tied, we never get to arrest anyone anymore, much less shoot the bad guys, everything is so PC, all the criminals are owed all the understanding, the immigrants too, one must have sympathy, n’est-ce pas?

  No, damn it, and it would feel awfully good to just shoot one, blow his fucking head off.

  Sometimes Ibrahim feels himself agreeing with this sentiment, with the frustration behind it, probably shared all across the world wherever the impartial rule of law butts against respect for human rights and civil liberties. On the other hand, most of the heads that get blown off look a lot like Ibrahim’s, while the people who do the shooting do not.

  “You are a lunatic, do you know that? An irresponsible lunatic. Does your wife know she married a lunatic?”

  “And what if they call our bluff? If they are willing to detonate just because we shoot the messenger, then they are planning to detonate anyway. By waiting we are simply putting ourselves into a weaker position.”

  “Listen: is there any way to prevent the detonation from occurring?”

  “Are you kidding? And we would have chosen not to do that yet?”

  “Frankly, it is not even the suicide vest I am worried about. It is that briefcase. Yves, do we have the readings yet?”

  “That team is still setting up the equipment. I am told that it is not so simple. Another few minutes.”

  Then they are all silent, perhaps waiting for those few minutes to pass.

  “There are cell phones out there, you know. Look at all those people. News cameras too. It would be throughout the world, instantly. A cold-blooded assassination.”

  “Of a terrorist.”

  “Of one scared man who is standing still, putting no one in imminent danger.”

  “Everyone is in imminent danger. He is wearing a suicide vest! He has a suitcase bomb!”

  “Maybe what they are trying to do is provoke us into shooting him. Have you considered that? Cameras everywhere, footage, they will be able to say, Look what these French savages did. And for all we know, this man is completely innocent.”

  “Innocent? What in the name of…? How could he be innocent?”

  “His family is being held at gunpoint. His children are huddled in some dark room at the business end of AK-47s. This poor sap here, he has been forced to walk into the cour Napoléon wearing this suicide vest or his kids are going to be beheaded by machetes.”

  “You have a fucked-up imagination, do you know that?”

  “And if we blow this patsy’s head off for eight billion people to see? Then they will be able to say that we forced their hands, they had no choice, so look, everyone, watch as we saw off all these little heads with a scythe?”

  “A scythe?”

  “They are barbarians.”

  “Who are you even talking about? We have no idea who is responsible for this.”

  “They are all barbarians.”

  Sudden silence. Ibrahim suspects that someone just realized that the sniper is one of the they, and probably held up a finger to lips, maybe inclined his head toward the man at the edge of the roof, creating a silent standoff.

  “Gentlemen. Look at this.”

  “What is this?”

  “A screen-grab from footage of the van that delivered the bomber here. We now know the vehicle make and model, the license plate. And, here, this image is a clear shot of the driver getting out of the van at place Vendôme. Depositing one of the bombs.”

  “He does not look, um…”

  “Arab?”

  A phone rings. One of the men answers tersely, listens for a few seconds, says thanks. “That was the tech team: the briefcase is definitely emitting radiation.”

  “Fuck.”

  “But that cannot really be a nuclear bomb, can it?”

  “No. It is too small to be a fission device. I am pretty sure.”

  “Pretty sure?”

  “But what it could be—in fact, what it must be—is a dirty bomb.”

  “Dirty. That could be nuclear dirt, right? What would we be looking at?”

  “Depends on many factors. Too many. I cannot speculate about the likely extent of damage.”

  “What about minimum?”

  “Without question it would make this immediate area a kill zone due to radiation poisoning. Radius of one thousand meters, at the absolute minimum. Possibly much more.”

  “Not to mention the contents of the Louvre contaminated for decades.”

  “A minimum of one thousand meters, you say? The radiation could reach l’E´lysée?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Everyone lets that sink in.

  “Is he there today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone needs to tell him.”

  Silence. No one wants to make this call.

  “Yves?”

  “What? Why me?”

  “You know why. And it has to happen right now, this minute. The president needs to evacuate.”

  37

  PARIS. 12:40 P.M.

  Kate pulls Schuyler’s door closed.

  “So, I’m sorry, but what’s this all about?” Schuyler is still standing behind her desk, looking affronted.

  “Listen carefully.” Kate needs to put this woman on notice, to scare the shit out of her from the get-go. “You’re having the hardest day of your career.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It may turn out to be the worst day of your entire life.”

  Now Schuyler has grown outraged, but speechless. And getting scared.
>
  “Your company is under attack. Physical attack. Mortal, physical attack.”

  The woman’s eyes dart to the closed door.

  “Not by me, don’t worry about me, I’m here to help.”

  “So says everyone who’s not.”

  Schuyler Franks is a woman whose profession is to manipulate the public’s perceptions of reality, to construct narratives, alternative facts. She probably confronts everyone else’s narratives with a strong dose of skepticism.

  “You’re completely right, you don’t have any reason to trust me,” Kate says. “So I’m not asking for you to simply believe some woman—some possibly crazy woman—who has lied her way into your office.”

  “So let me get this straight: we don’t have an appointment?”

  “What I’m telling you is to check this out for yourself. Make a couple of calls.”

  “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  “My identity matters a lot less than you might think.”

  “I’m sorry?” Shaking her head. “I’m going to need to call security?”

  “No.” Kate grabs the woman by the forearm, not gently.

  “Ow.”

  “You’re not.”

  Kate doesn’t like doing this, intimidating a woman who has done nothing wrong except appear accidentally in Kate’s path. Getting bullied herself is something Kate still remembers intensely, viscerally. The CIA halls were suffused with the miasma of testosterone, and Kate was under a more or less constant threat of getting dismissed, getting ignored, getting rejected. She felt the sting well before it even happened, the aggression, the condescension, the subtle slights and hostile body language and flippant smirks.

  She remembers how effective it was. How it kept her on the constant defensive, willing to do practically anything to avoid confrontation.

  “Sit the fuck down,” Kate says. “And for the love of God stop apologizing to me.”

  Schuyler Franks is not one hundred percent willing to accept Kate’s authority, but she’s awfully close.

  “Right now.”

  There, that does it. Just as effective as ever. The young woman takes a seat at the edge of her chair, back rigid, eyes wide. She doesn’t know what defense is available to her—should she call security? Call her boss? Or should she hear out this intruder?

  “Hong Kong and Mumbai, your offices there—those office buildings—both have bomb threats against them, at this minute. Please go ahead, check it out yourself.”

  “I’m sorry, what? How?”

  “Stop apologizing. Just call someone over there. Anyone you want.”

  Schuyler nods, seems almost relieved to be told to do something so concrete, so straightforward. She looks at her screen, then down at her keyboard, her forefingers finding their positions at F and J. She types in a password, then clicks around with her mouse.

  The speakerphone answers, “Hello, 4Syte Hong Kong, how may I direct your call?”

  “Hi! This is Schuyler Franks in the Paris office? Do you work in reception?”

  “Yes I do.” This call to the other side of the world is very clear, to a woman with a very British accent. “How may I be of assistance?”

  Schuyler is staring at nothingness, concentrating. Kate uses the opportunity to unlock her own phone and launch an app. Then she puts her device on the desk, just inches from Schuyler’s cell. The process should take less than a minute.

  “Sorry, may I ask you a strange question?”

  “Erm…”

  “Is there a bomb threat to your building?”

  “Uh…One moment please.”

  Schuyler is put on hold with ambient music, or maybe this sound doesn’t qualify as music, just a series of oscillating tones, hypnotizing—

  “Yes.” The Hong Kong receptionist says.

  “Yes? Yes what?”

  No answer.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t want to harass you?” Schuyler says. “But you just put me on hold to ask for permission to answer my question, right? You called someone in public relations? I’m in PR, check me out if you need to? Do you want me to spell out my name?”

  “No, I’ve already verified you, your phone number.”

  “Awesome. Well, I received a query from the press, and my plan is to phone back and say I don’t know anything? But that’s not going to cut it forever, we’re going to need a real response? So I’m sorry, but I have to know what’s actually going on over there?”

  That’s a good story; Kate nods her encouragement.

  Hong Kong pauses, then says. “Right. One moment please.” Hold again, another half-minute. Then: “Right. Building management alerted all tenants that someone attempted entry with a potentially explosive device.”

  Schuyler’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead, her mouth hangs open. She doesn’t know where to go from here. Then she gathers her wits, says, “I’m sorry, may I have the name of the building management? A contact number?”

  “Very well.”

  The Hong Kong woman rattles off some information, which Schuyler dutifully writes down, ends the call. Then she just sits there.

  “Are you going to check with Mumbai?” Kate asks.

  “Is it the same thing?”

  “Similar, probably. Have you heard anything about this building? Evacuations, threats, anything?”

  “No. Do you think this building is under attack?”

  “I don’t have any reason to,” Kate says. “But other parts of Paris are. I understand that your CEO is holding a press conference this afternoon. Will that take place here?”

  “Um…I’m sor—” Schuyler stops herself. “Listen: you need to tell me who you are, and what you’re doing here, or I’m going to have to call security? I don’t…I can’t…”

  Kate pushes past this. “Is Hunter Forsyth here right now? In the building?”

  Schuyler doesn’t answer.

  “If this office is going to be attacked, Schuyler—if your boss is going to be attacked, abducted, assassinated—”

  “What?”

  “—do you really want to be the one who’s responsible for failing to prevent it?”

  “Why me? Why did you come to me?”

  “You answered the phone.”

  “Wait, what? You’re the one who called earlier?”

  “Listen, I didn’t choose you, that was just luck. But we’re here now, you and I, and it’s possible that something very bad is going on in your company today. Right now. You can either be a hero, and help me figure out what it is and how to prevent it, or you can be a villain, an obstacle. I’m sure we don’t have an excess of spare time, so for fuck’s sake tell me right now: is Hunter Forsyth here in this goddamned building?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, can you find out? Now?”

  A long second passes while the young woman makes her calculations, weighing one unpleasant possibility against another. She nods again, then stares down into her lap, thinking. Nods once more, this time agreeing with herself, with the plan she just hatched. She clicks her mouse again, and another speakerphone call goes through.

  “Allô Schuyler.”

  “Hi?” She furrows her brow. “Colette?”

  “Non, c’est Dominique.”

  Kate leans forward, plants her elbows on the desk, listening carefully.

  “Oh, okay? Has Colette stepped away?”

  “Colette, she is not here.”

  “Sorry? Where is she?”

  “She is with Monsieur Forsyth, at his home.”

  “Okay, well…um…I want to check if Hunter needs anything last-minute for the press conference?”

  Dominique doesn’t answer.

  “Sorry, can I ask you to check for me? With Hunter?”

  Dominique pauses before answering, “Oui. I will try.”
>
  Schuyler is put on hold again. It takes longer than expected, while Schuyler stares down at her desk, avoiding Kate’s gaze.

  Dominique comes back on the line. “Monsieur Forsyth, he does not answer.”

  “Can you try Col—”

  “Oui, she also does not answer her mobile. And no one answers the telephone at the apartment. Personne answer rien.”

  “That’s strange, isn’t it? When is Monsieur Forsyth expected to the office?”

  “Another hour.”

  “Aren’t you worried?”

  “Worried? Non. Why should I be worried?”

  “Because no one answers the phone?”

  The other woman laughs, a humorless staccato burst.

  “What’s funny?”

  “What do you think, Schuyler?” Pronounced skee-LAIR.

  “Sorry, I really don’t know? Please, what are you talking about?”

  Dominique sighs. “Why would a man and a woman together in an apartment not answer their phones? Can you imagine a reason?”

  * * *

  Kate knows how it can happen: an everyday relationship that exerts pressure, builds toward something, momentum without friction, acceleration. Like physics.

  Part of the appeal was her growing resentments at home, a long-term amalgamation of little slights, minor inconsiderations. Dexter’s parental neglects, educational, social, recreational, spousal. Kate could group them on a spreadsheet, sorted by category, ranked by orders of magnitude.

  This is apparently how you can get to a spot where you can’t stand your spouse.

  The title of the spreadsheet would be: GRIEVANCES.

  That was the push. The pull happened in Seville, the way these things happen. Kate and Peter had a typically late Andalusian dinner accompanied by vermouth and then tinto and then sherry—all told, perhaps too much to drink, though it didn’t look that way at the time. It never looks that way at the time, especially when you’re having great fun, sharing jokes, smiles, intimacies, a long slow walk through the sexy Spanish streets, the tapas bars spilling tipsy patrons onto the sidewalks, an air of permissiveness.